


Call When You Need Me

by stillusesapencil



Series: Javid's indie playlist [6]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24307081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillusesapencil/pseuds/stillusesapencil
Summary: The titular song by Vance Joy can be foundhere.This is like...the happiest work yet? We're about three works from the end, so this ain't over yet, folks!!!Also, in a GREAT plot twist, I've found myself in a long distance relationship, so some of this is based on real life.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Javid's indie playlist [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616590
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	Call When You Need Me

**Author's Note:**

> The titular song by Vance Joy can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQjTQFRZsD4).
> 
> This is like...the happiest work yet? We're about three works from the end, so this ain't over yet, folks!!!
> 
> Also, in a GREAT plot twist, I've found myself in a long distance relationship, so some of this is based on real life.

_ Sunday, 7:34am New York Time/5:34am Santa Fe Time: _

Davey’s phone pings, and he grapples for it on the edge of his bed, glaring at it through the blear of sleep. It takes him a moment to realize why he  _ can’t actually read it, _ and that is, of course, because he’s not wearing his glasses. He fumbles with them for a moment before jamming them on his face to read the text:

**morning babe! have a good day! [smiley face emoji]**

And, despite being just awoken, Davey smiles. Then he frowns. It would be 5:30, Jack’s time.  **why are you up?**

**awake? i never went to sleep!**

He jams his face into his pillow. Stupid boy. No self-care whatsoever, that one. 

**Get some rest,** he types, and rolls out of bed. 

_ Monday, 12:14pm New York Time/10:14am Santa Fe Time: _

His phone vibrates, and he takes it out to see it’s from Jack. He looks at it a few minutes later, when he takes his lunch break. 

It’s a picture of a computer with an editing program pulled up. In the foreground, Jack has a bored expression on his face, and his right hand is smashed into his cheek to tug that side of his face down.  **corporate grind got me down.**

Davey responds with his own photo, pulling his head back to make as many chins as possible and crossing his eyes.  **Lunch break!**

It’s a few minutes before Jack responds, but when he does, it’s with a string of laughing emojis and nothing more.

_ Tuesday, 9:45pm New York Time/7:45pm Santa Fe Time: _

Davey lies on his back, phone to his ear. On the other end, Jack is mumbling to himself as he finishes cooking dinner. Well, “cooking” is relative. Heating up is more like it. 

“I’m just so inspired out here,” Jack is saying. “Even though my boss is a dick. It’s like I can’t keep my hands off the paints.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wish you could see it. All the sun and colors and shit. It’s great, just great.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, how’re you?”

“Fine.”

“That’s it? Just fine?”

Davey shrugs, remembers Jack can’t see him, and talks. “I guess? I mostly just work. And pack.” He shoots a look at the cardboard boxes tossed in the corner of his room. Pack is relative. It’s more like he stands in the middle of his room and tells himself he’s going to pack, and then comes back to himself thirty minutes later having gotten distracted by his old yearbook or academic awards or a journal from when he was twelve. (So much bad poetry. So. Much.) 

“Heh. I bet you’ll  _ still _ be throwing stuff together last minute.”

“Yeah, probably.” 

“Tell me about the books you’s reading.”

So Davey does, letting himself ramble, because Jack doesn’t mind, because it’s  _ Jack _ . He’s never minded, and that hasn’t changed now. 

Later, when their voices have slowed to murmurs and Davey is drifting off, Jack says, “Miss you, Dave.” 

“Miss you too.”

“Shit, it’s late there.”

“Mm.” 

“You goin’ to sleep on me?”

“Never.” Yet he doesn’t open his eyes. 

“Right. You get some sleep. Love you.”

“Love you,” he mumbles back.

“Skype me Thursday?”

“Sure. Thursday.”

_ Wednesday 5:47pm New York Time/3:47pm Santa Fe Time _

Davey haphazardly throws some sweaters, a package of pencils, and a single converse into a box. Where’s the other one? He doesn’t know. It’s not important. He carefully selects six books from his shelf and places them in the box to balance one another. Judging it good, he sets the box to the side and starts on the next one. 

And there, under the bed, with a stack of elementary school assignments (why does he have these?) and the other converse, is an old baseball cap. Davey doesn’t wear baseball caps. He knows exactly who this belongs to. He pulls it out and dusts it off, smiling softly. It’s beat up, like all Jack’s caps, but not so much that it’s unwearable. 

His heart aching happily, he settles it on his head, backward, and sends Jack a photo.

**Found something of yours today.**

Jack doesn’t respond until later in the evening, when Davey has shoved more things into boxes and deliberated over multiple piles of old sentimental things.  **glad you can keep something of mine with you**

It makes his heart hurt a little bit, ache with missing and joy and love. 

Jack doesn’t call him that night, but they do text into the evening, and Davey is content.

_ Thursday, 8:22pm New York Time/6:22pm Santa Fe Time: _

The camera jiggles as Jack walks down the street. Behind him, Davey can make out other people, a stucco building, a billboard. It’s nothing like New York, from what he can see. 

But Jack is smiling, grinning so his eyes crinkle up and his teeth are prominent. 

He looks happy and at home, so Davey doesn’t mention how much he misses him.

They stay on Skye until they are both laying in bed, sleepy and drifting, blinking slowly at each other through the camera. 

“I love you,” Davey says.

Jack repeats it. “Miss you.”

“Yeah. Me too.” 

“Wish I could be there. I’d hold you so tight.”

Davey smiles a little, already knowing exactly how their bodies slot together--he a little taller, Jack a little broader, their legs tangling on the bed. 

_ Soon _ , he thinks.  _ Someday _ .

_ Friday, 4:34 New York Time/2:34 Santa Fe Time _

When Davey checks his mail, there’s a card, addressed to him in familiar scrawl. He opens it, and inside are three index-card sized paintings. One is of the sunset--in Santa Fe, presumably, painted in vibrant warm tones. The second is of New York, in a modern cubist style--greys and steel-toned blues taking up square chunks and creating a stiff, heavy pattern. 

And the last? The last is--different. There’s a lot of blue, smudged and smeared. There’s also quite a bit of peach, and some dark brown, and some lines of mottled tortoise-shell tan. The tones are hues are clearly something, something important. Davey can tell by the way the brushstrokes are gentle and swirling. 

Then he realizes two things. One, he is holding it upside down. (He turns it over.) Two, the painting is of himself. 

He bursts into startled, happy tears.

_ Saturday, 10:05 New York Time/8:05 Santa Fe Time _

Davey stands in the shiny, clean apartment bedroom, hands on hips. He can see where he’ll put his bookshelf, and his desk. It’s going to be cramped, but it will work. Race and Spot trot past his open door, arguing about something (the placement of the couch, maybe?) and Davey simply smiles. This is his future, after all. 

Time to start anew. 

He carries in a stack of his boxes and sets them in the middle of the floor, wanting to memorize the way the sharpie looks on the cardboard (DAVEY, clothes, posters + books), and how they sit on the ratty carpet floor. 

“Fuck you, Spot! The record player should be on the table to match up with our vintage minimalism aesthetic!”

“I don’t care about minimalistic hipsters, I just want to listen to my music!” 

He enters the living room, resigning himself to a future of couples fights. 

“Davey! Tell Spot he needs to understand the fundamentals of interior design!”

“Dave! Tell Race he’s a goodman engineer and not an interior design genius!”

Davey holds up his hands, removing himself from the fight. “We haven’t even been here an hour and you’re already calling upon me to mediate? Too soon.” 

The two open their mouths to further argue, but he’s saved by his phone ringing. It’s Jack.

“What are you doing up at this time?”

“Davey! It’s move-in day!”

“That’s right.”

“How is it?”

“Oh, you know--” he shoots a glare at his housemates “--I’m already playing referee.”

Spot rolls his eyes and Race sticks out his tongue. 

Jack laughs. “Sounds about right.”

Davey goes back to his room. “What’s up?”

“Well.” Jack is smiling, he can tell by the way he sounds. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About what?” Davey looks at his clean new room. The bed will go  _ there _ , he decides, and the desk beside it. 

“I’m thinking about coming home.” 


End file.
